Sheridan saw Quong spring to the right and then, with flexing ankles, leap to the left. There was a flash as he tossed his knife from one hand to the other with juggling dexterity. This time his right hand caught the knife-wrist of Hsu Fu, tugged downwards, jerking Hsu forwards, off his balance, caught unaware. And Quong's left hand and arm shot across the barrier of their two right arms, swift and sure as the strike of an eagle in an overhanded curve. The point of his blade sank into Hsu Fu's abdomen with the sharp skreel of steel against bone as it slid over the hip and ripped across the undefended stomach. Hsu Fu pitched forward as Quong released him, blood spouting from the frightful wound and fell in the growing puddle of it; one hand outstretched, groping, twitching, still; pointing towards the piled-up bars of gold.
Quong's features reverted swiftly to their ivory calm. Only his heaving chest showed token of the subsiding whirlwind of his fight. He glanced at his wet, smoking blade, then tossed it from him, tinkling, far into the interior.
"It was not my hour that struck," he said. Then took out his little box and placed an opium pellet in his mouth.
"Let's get out of this," said Red. Thora, the stout-hearted, had quailed before the smell and sight of the blood of the savage conflict. She clung to Red, pale, trembling, averting her face on his shoulder.
They filed out of the cave in silence, Mary close to Sheridan. Very close, now and for always, he
